


Royal Purple

by ba_lailah



Category: Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis
Genre: Anal Fingering, Consensual Violence, F/M, Impact Play, Incest, Minimally Negotiated Kink, Rough Sex, Sibling Incest, Switching, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-02
Updated: 2019-09-02
Packaged: 2020-10-05 11:03:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20487857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ba_lailah/pseuds/ba_lailah
Summary: It's Susan's sixteenth birthday and she's miserable, until Peter cheers her up.(Read the tags and ratings, please.)





	Royal Purple

**Author's Note:**

  * For [The_Wavesinger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Wavesinger/gifts).

Susan made it all the way through her birthday revels without crying. She was very proud of herself. At last, pleading sore feet from all the dancing, she fled to her rooms high in one of Cair Paravel's towers, dismissed her sweet dryad handmaid, threw herself on the bed, and sobbed until she felt sick.

Sound was muffled by the castle's stone walls, so Peter couldn't have heard her, but suddenly he was there, crouching next to the bed and holding out a bowl of warm water and a flannel. She wiped her face and blew her nose. "Thanks," she said.

It wasn't really a surprise to see him. They were always in and out of each other's rooms, one looking for a book on the other's shelf or posing an urgent question. Peter was High King above all, but late at night he'd sit on Susan's bed and ask her advice on tangled matters of policy and fairness, treating her like a true Queen.

"I could see it in your face a bit, at supper," Peter said. "Do you miss... them?" _Them_ always meant Mother and Father.

"Of course," Susan said, fighting back more tears. "Always. And it's my sweet sixteen. They ought to... it would have... oh!"

Peter sat on the bed, where he always sat, and she pressed her face into his shoulder and soaked the fine purple velvet of his doublet with tears.

When she was done, he wiped her face again, tenderly, and dropped the flannel back in the bowl. They were silent for a bit.

"If you say 'Buck up, Su,'" Susan said eventually, "I'll slap you."

"Would that help you feel better?" Peter asked. "When I'm upset I go box with one of the Bears. Works a treat." He paused. "I mean it. You can box with me. If you like."

She tilted her head to look at him. He looked very serious, but not in the High King Peter way. He was growing up too. In the dim light of the candle by her bed, he looked like their father.

Suddenly there was nothing she wanted more than to pummel him like one of the training dummies.

"Yes," she said. She struggled to her feet and glared down at her ruined gown. "Help me out of this."

Peter went behind her and did something—likely involving his belt-knife, she thought—that made all the laces come open at once. He slid the gown down her shoulders and over her hips. His hands lingered on her sides for just a moment, and she felt the heat of them through her thin shift. He was always warm. When he took his hands away, she missed them. She wondered what else he'd let her do when she was done hitting him.

Behind her, she could hear the rustle of Peter stripping out of his own party clothes. Susan kicked her dress into the corner and her dancing slippers after it. The thick pile of the rug felt good beneath her bare feet.

When she turned around, Peter was naked.

"This is how I do it with Brumbleden," he said hesitantly. "Bears don't wear clothing, and it didn't seem sporting that I should..."

"Peter," she said. "Shut up."

He shut up.

She took off her shift. After a moment's thought, she also took off her rings—the lion signet they all wore, a faceted ruby that the Calormene ambassador had sent for a birthday present, a pearl set in gold that reminded her of a necklace her mother had given her when she was a little girl—and set them on her bedside table.

Peter stood poised on the balls of his feet, watching her. She watched him back. He didn't look at all like their father now. Father had never looked at her as though she were the only human woman within several hundred miles. She watched her brother's cock twitch, and let herself look at him as though he were the only human man within several hundred miles. 

"I don't want to box with you," she said. "Not Queensberry rules. I want to hit you. I want you to let me."

His chest rose and fell. He nodded sharply. 

"Then I might want you to hit me. I'm not sure yet." Where was all this coming from, she wondered distantly. She sounded so sure of herself, so royal, as she said these shocking things. In her Queen Susan voice, they didn't sound shocking in the least. They sounded natural and reasonable, as though someone getting hit were a venerable Narnian birthday tradition. "But I go first."

Peter considered her for another moment, and she watched his battlefield mind grasp her approach and extrapolate a strategy from it. He stepped in to meet her as though they were crossing blades, halting precisely an arm's length—her arm's length—away.

"No facers," he said.

"No facers," she agreed in a level voice that used the last of her self-control. Then she wound up and punched him in the right pectoral as hard as she could.

The _thud_ was softer than his grunt of surprise and pain. The impact resonated up her arm. It was very satisfying to see him stagger a bit, so she hit him again, nearly in the same spot, and he grunted again and widened his stance, bracing so she could hit him harder. It felt good, so angry and good. He was letting her, just as she'd asked, but the color was rising in his face and she could see him wanting to hit her back. She wondered how long he'd go before his own self-control snapped.

Her left cross caught him just above the left nipple and began a bruise to match the one on the right. She pounded him, a flurry of blows, always going for the thick muscle and avoiding the tender, tempting targets of his belly and solar plexus. She didn't want to harm him. She just wanted to hurt him.

At some point she noticed that his cock was fully hard. The thought made her aware of the wetness that was growing between her own thighs. But she wasn't done hitting him, so she grabbed him by the shoulders and shoved him toward the bed, taking him by surprise. He caught himself, right hand gripping the post and left braced on the coverlet, and she went after him just like that, pummeling his upper back and then, with great pleasure and all the considerable strength in her right arm, whacking his ass with her open palm hard enough to leave a bright red handprint on his pale skin. Peter yelped and glared at her over his shoulder. 

Susan liked things tidy, so she left a mirror-image print on the left. Then it was back to punching. She pressed right up against him, feeling the heat of the marks against her belly and wishing she had a cock of her own to rut with between his legs, and drummed on his back, pausing now and again to dig her thumbs into the purple marks as though she could pop them like grapes. Her breath was coming in short gasps and her head was floating as though she'd run ten miles. She hit him again and again. Peter made lovely noises between his clenched teeth and pressed his ass back against her. Maybe he wished she had that cock too. 

Susan was far from innocent; she'd watched the Centaurs in the forest clearings and the Naiads in the rivers, and disported with Maenads in leafy bowers. Narnian Beasts had no shame. Neither would she. She reached around and wrapped her fingers around Peter's straining cock. 

"Aslan's _mane_," Peter swore, and he slapped his hand down on the bed in the universal sign of a fighter tapping out.

Susan yanked her hand away and stepped back, breathing hard. Her knuckles and shoulders were sore.

Peter was panting too, his head down. After a moment he straightened up and turned toward her, his cock jutting out at her like one of her own arrows.

She looked down at it, then met his eyes in an unmistakable invitation.

"My turn now," he said hoarsely.

Susan's heart pounded. She let herself feel the sweet ache of exertion and asked her body whether other aches would feel as sweet. An all-over shudder of need was her answer.

"No facers," she said.

"No facers," he said.

She braced her feet and held his gaze. Oh, she wanted to watch High King Peter hit a woman. She wanted to watch him lose control.

He danced in close to her, not hesitant but cautious. She kept her head up and smiled at him, a welcome, a challenge. Then he unleashed a flurry of jabs against her upper chest, precise, aiming for muscle just as she had. He wasn't pulling his punches and she gasped, straining to keep the breath in her lungs.

She wanted him to hit her harder, but he'd knock her over. She held up a hand to stay him and backed up against the hanging tapestry of Squirrels cavorting in an apple tree. Behind it, the stone wall supported her, Cair Paravel itself playing a part in their sport.

With her upraised hand, she beckoned him in again.

His first blow felt like he was trying to punch through her chest and reach the wall. She staggered, her head thumping against the tapestry, and nearly bit her tongue. He was slower now, steady as a smith hammering out a sword. She could feel the bruises blooming on the upper slopes of her breasts. Her nipples were hard and aching. She wanted him to grab one and twist it, but she knew that would change the game, and now that he'd started, she didn't want him to stop.

Open-handed, Peter slapped her breasts and belly, forehand and backhand. Pain and pleasure lanced through her. She'd closed her eyes at some point but she could feel her skin tingling and knew it was turning red.

He grabbed her hip, his thumb digging into her soft flesh, and spun her to face the wall. She moved with it, unresisting. She deserved this. She wanted this. It was so beautifully _simple_.

Peter thumped both fists down on her upper back again and again. She pressed her face and aching chest into the scratchy-soft wool of the tapestry and lost herself in the sensation. He knocked small noises out of her with every blow. After leaving rows of bruises alongside her upper spine, he smacked her ass and slapped her thighs, dragging blunt nails across the tender skin. A sharp slap right across the crack of her ass made her cry out. He grabbed her buttocks with his strong hands and squeezed hard enough to leave circles of fingertip bruises. She clawed at the tapestry, pushing her ass back against him just as he'd done to her, rubbing her nipples harshly against the wool and feeling a flood well up inside her.

He reached between her thighs with one hand and gripped her cunt, fingers digging in just above her mound and the heel of his palm pressing up against her opening. She thought she might faint.

"Is this what you want, Su?" he said, breathing hard. His sweat stung her tender flesh, and she could feel her juices drenching his hand. "I know you're ready. I've seen you slip away to Bacchus's orgies, with his wild Maenads."

"Oh yes," she whispered. "And I've wondered what happens between you and Brumbleden after your boxing matches. Do you like his snout sniffing over you, and his big wide tongue?"

He hissed and bit down on her shoulder. She yelled and hooked an ankle around his leg. They fell to the rug, her half on top of him and both with the wind knocked out of them. 

Susan recovered first and rolled on top of Peter, straddling him and getting a firm hand into his shaggy hair. "I want you," she told him. "I've been waiting and waiting."

"Not as long as I have," he said, grabbing her hips. "I always knew it would be you, ever since the boys at school started telling stories about what goes on in bedrooms."

She rubbed against him, slick and sopping wet, feeling his cock jump. It was ever so much better than she'd imagined. "You wouldn't rather have a Bear?"

"Never," he promised.

Susan leaned down and pressed her mouth hard against his, bruising them both. He tasted like wine and sweet well water. He bit her lip and she moaned as she rubbed herself over the head of his cock. "Now," she begged against his mouth.

He pulled her hips down and pushed up into her until she was full, so achingly full. It was almost like another bruise inside her. The thought made her want to dig the thumb of her free hand into the angry marks on Peter's chest, so she did, tightening her other hand in his hair. He groaned and grabbed her breasts, squeezing hard. "Please—" she managed.

At last he pinched her wool-chafed nipples. Everything else was forgotten as Susan flung herself bolt upright, her back arching so hard she felt her spine crackle, and came like a volcano.

When she could see again, Peter was still gripping her nipples between finger and thumb. Now the pain was more pain and less pleasure, and she writhed. Part of her wanted to slap his hands away and take control again, but the part of her that wanted to see what he would do next won out.

Slowly he began to rock his hips under her, not enough to remotely satisfy her. The bruise inside her ached. Her whole body ached. She rubbed gently at her clit, which helped a bit.

"You don't know how hard it is to keep from letting go," Peter told her, still rocking, still pinching. She realized he was tormenting himself with the pleasure of being inside her, watching her squirm, making her hurt. The thought shot sparks through her, and it took only a few strokes on her clit to bring her to another climax, clenching and throbbing around him as her toes curled.

She came back to herself and saw his gritted teeth, the sweat on his brow. If anyone were going to torment him, it ought to be her. Wasn't that was younger sisters were for?

She pushed his hands away, reluctantly tugged her sucking cunt off his cock, and stood up, adding chafed knees to the catalog of her injuries. Peter looked up at her, surprised. "Bend over the bed," she told him. "My turn."

She didn't want a mess on her bed, so she folded up his doublet and slid it between him and the blanket. Then she pressed her hips up against his ass. The handprints had faded but there was a bit of redness from the rug. She scratched her nails down it and Peter shuddered.

"I thought earlier that I wanted a cock to put into you," she said. He moaned and she smiled, smug to have guessed him right. "I haven't got one, but I've got fingers, and the Maenads showed me that those can be nearly as good."

She slid two fingers into her sopping wetness and then ran them around his hole. Peter ground his cock against the velvet, gasping as she began to press one finger into him as inexorably as he'd pushed his cock into her.

Once both fingers were deep inside his tight, hot hole, she began to rock them slowly, teasing him. He whimpered and reached up to stroke himself. With her other hand she pinched up and down his sides, sometimes cruelly digging in her nails, still so hungry to hurt him. His hand moved faster as he gave little cries of pleasure-pain, but she refused to match his rhythm, dragging her fingers in and out at her own lazy pace no matter how urgently he pressed back against her hand.

An idea came to her and she reached around to find and pinch his nipple. Peter shuddered and came with a shout all over his best velvet doublet.

"Out," he gasped. She pulled her fingers out a little too quickly and he let out a strangled cry. She left him half-collapsed on the bed and went to find that bowl of water with the flannel.

The water was cold by now, and she enjoyed watching Peter shiver from it as he cleaned himself up. Would she ever tire of his discomfort? She thought she might not. The Narnians had begun calling her "the Gentle"; how little they knew.

"Do you want more?" she asked.

"Oh no," he said, half-laughing. Then he looked up at her. "Do you?"

She took the flannel from him, rinsed it in the water, and wiped off her fingers. "I think I could go until dawn."

Peter groaned and lay back on the bed. Susan laughed and crawled up alongside him, pressing her body against his and enjoying his warmth. She was always cold in Cair Paravel. "I can pleasure myself," she reminded him. "I've done it often enough while thinking of you."

"Su..." He buried his face in her sweaty hair. "You should have told me."

"You'd have made me wait until I was older. Or sent me away because brothers with sisters is... is wrong."

He shrugged, unbothered by the mores of far-off England. To tell the truth, she wasn't much bothered either. They'd gone quite feral in the last few years.

"Narnia's hardly overflowing with prospects for either of us," he said.

Like that, she was a queen again. "The Calormene ambassador suggested Prince Rabadash might journey to Cair Paravel and offer for my hand."

Peter captured her hand between his. Then he took up the lion signet from the table and slid it onto her finger. "Your hand is claimed," he said.

Susan rested her head against his and at last let herself relax, one muscle at a time. A wave of exhaustion swept over her, battling with her lingering hunger for Peter's touch, and she yawned.

She couldn't see Peter smile, but she heard it when he leaned down and whispered in her ear, "Buck up, Su."

She slapped his chest, not too hard, but hard enough to remind him how much harder she could hit when she liked. "Don't try me, Peter Pevensie."

He put on his best more-in-sorrow voice. "Is this how you speak to your High King?"

She elbowed him in the ribs, rolled on top of him, and kissed him. And then, just to show him, she fell asleep.


End file.
